


la petite mort

by Witcher_Trash_Party



Series: Witcher Trash Party [10]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Death Threats, Digging Your Own Grave, Guns, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Mock Execution, Organized Crime, Psychological Torture, geralt is a bad man, no beta i die like jaskier almost does, nobody dies but there's no happy ending so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:00:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28616208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Witcher_Trash_Party/pseuds/Witcher_Trash_Party
Summary: "Get digging, pretty boy," Geralt says, gesturing to the ground. "Make sure you make it deep enough - we wouldn't want wild animals dragging your remains all over the forest."Dread settles like a stone in Jaskier’s chest.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher Trash Party [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1990582
Comments: 5
Kudos: 110
Collections: Witcher Dead Dove Flock





	la petite mort

**Author's Note:**

> most of this was born in the witcher dead dove server, and the credit for a great chunk of this goes to [@princelykinks](https://princelykinks.tumblr.com/). thanks for talking this through with me!! <3

Jaskier has never expected to get tangled up in organized crime - sure, he was no boy scout, he got drunk and he smoked pot sometimes, but who didn’t, in this day and age? It was an honest mistake on his part: he took a bartending job at this seedy bar, and when he had finally realized just what he was getting into, it was too late to back out. So now he’s a part of the mob.

He doesn’t do a lot of illegal things. Most of the time, he’s just a regular barman, like any other in their town. Sometimes the patrons ask him for drinks that don’t exist, and Jaskier directs them to the back where they can buy whatever drug they are after. Sometimes, he gets a call to go pick up a parcel at a warehouse, and then he has to bring it to a club or to a street corner for someone to pick up - he assumes it’s drugs, but he’s pretty sure he transported a gun once.

It’s… not good, but it’s also not terrible. He gets paid, and he’s not in any _real_ danger. And he’s out as soon as he has more than a couple of bucks to his name.

The last of the guests make it out the door. Jaskier collects the glasses and starts washing them in the sink behind the bar, whistling all the while. It’s late at night, and he can’t wait to get home. There’s some hiccup with the warehouses this week, so there are no errands for Jaskier to run tomorrow and he can sleep in.

He finishes washing the glasses and leaves them to dry. When he turns around, there’s a figure leaning against the bar, and it nearly gives Jaskier a heart attack.

It’s just Geralt, though. Jaskier calms down. He hasn’t heard him come to the front - the whole night was in the back with Jaskier’s higher-ups, doing… Jaskier doesn’t even know what. He doesn’t really know what it is that Geralt does. He carries a gun everywhere, and he looks very intimidating, and Jaskier sees him both here and in the warehouses, without any particular pattern to it. Geralt sometimes chats with him at the bar, getting a drink, asking Jaskier if anyone’s been suspicious that night. He’s kind of hot, if Jaskier’s being honest, but he refuses to get involved with a criminal.

“Hey!” he greets. “You want one last glass of whiskey before I go?”

“No. I’m actually leaving,” Geralt explains, “I was wondering whether you wanted a ride home.”

A ride home sounds actually really nice. Jaskier was ready to walk, since he doesn’t have a car or the money for a taxi. It’s going to be much more comfortable, and much safer. “Yeah,” he agrees, “that would be great, actually. You sure I’m on your way?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Geralt says, but it doesn’t really sound reassuring, since this man almost never shows emotions. Not through his expression, not through his voice, not through his body language. Just cool, collected calm.

“Okay! I’ll just go grab my jacket.”

Geralt’s car is big and black. That is the only thing Jaskier notices as he climbs into the passenger side, and he can’t even blame it on the darkness of the parking lot because Jaskier knows nothing about cars.

Geralt starts the car, Jaskier gives him his address, Geralt nods, and reverses out of the parking spot.

The streets are quiet and practically empty this late at night, and Jaskier enjoys the tranquility of the ride. Geralt is quiet, but then again, when the man _isn’t_ quiet?

“Oh, you missed a turn,” Jaskier points out.

Geralt doesn’t answer.

“And... another,” Jaskier says, fear gripping his lungs. They definitely aren't headed to his shitty apartment. And yet he tries… “Geralt, stop - I’ll walk the rest of the way, it’s fine - ”

“Shut up,” Geralt growls.

Oh, _fuck_. Jaskier has seen the movies: he’s going to die, no doubt about it. There’s no other explanation. He scrambles for the handle, maybe he’ll survive throwing himself out of the car -

 _Click_. Geralt switches on the central lock.

Jaskier pulls at the door handle anyways, to no avail. Shit, he won’t make it out. He feels panic rising in his throat. His heart is beating so hard it hurts. Suddenly he’s bathed in cold sweat, his hands shaking.

Geralt keeps driving, unmoved by Jaskier’s terror.

Jaskier looks at him, and tries to find a man under that steely look. “Geralt,” he whispers, “You wouldn’t kill me. I’m just a barman, I didn’t do anything! Look at me, I’m entirely harmless - “

“You’re a fucking rat is what you are,” Geralt says. “Several of our warehouses got busted. Coincidentally only the ones you visit.”

“What? I - I have nothing to do with that! You have to believe me, Geralt,” he begs, and there are tears stinging his eyes. “Please.” He isn’t stupid enough to think that he could outsmart the fucking _mob_. He’s just trying to keep his head down and get out as soon as possible.

“Everything points to you,” Geralt tells him. “There’s no use in lying.”

Jaskier isn’t lying, that’s the thing - but Geralt obviously doesn’t want to hear any of that. He has no empathy for Jaskier…

...but he might be willing to make a trade. Jaskier doesn’t have much to offer, but he’d give everything and more to make it out alive.

He takes a deep breath. He bats his eyelashes at Geralt, tries to look at least a little bit seductive, but he must be failing rather miserably because he's shaking like a leaf, tears threatening to spill any second. "I'll do anything you want,” he says, and he can’t keep the unattractive desperation, the pure terror out of his voice. “I _mean_ it. Anything. I'll let you fuck me, use me, whatever you want, just please _please_ don't kill me, please let me live - "

But Geralt is unmoving. Expressionless. He barely even glances at Jaskier while he _pleads for his fucking life_ , keeping his eyes on the road.

Jaskier has never felt despair such as this.

They drive for a long time, out of the town and deep into the surrounding forest. They finally stop at the side of some abandoned road.

Geralt gets out of the car, walks around to get something from the trunk - and as soon as Jaskier's brain catches up and he realizes that this is his chance to run, Geralt is already opening the passenger side door, pointing a gun at Jaskier and gesturing for him to get out of the car.

Jaskier has already learned that he'll do anything he's asked to do when there's a gun in his face.

When Jaskier climbs out, Geralt thrusts a _shovel_ in his hands.

“Walk.”

Jaskier does.

Geralt walks behind him, the gun always pointed at Jaskier's back, and directs him. They walk for what feels like hours, but it's probably only mere minutes. Jaskier's heart is beating so hard and fast he thinks it's going to jump right out of his ribcage, he's bathed in cold sweat, the shovel in his hands seems to weigh at least a ton.

They reach a quiet little clearing, and Geralt tells him to stop.

"Get digging, pretty boy," he says, gesturing to the ground. "Make sure you make it deep enough - we wouldn't want wild animals dragging your remains all over the forest."

Dread settles like a stone in Jaskier’s chest. "Wh-?"

"Did I stutter?" The white-haired man raises a brow, challenging Jaskier to talk back.

Jaskier doesn't. He really doesn't want this to get any worse - not that he's sure it _could_ get any worse... Scratch that, his imagination is creative enough, he knows how much worse this could get.

He shoves the shovel blade into the ground, starting to dig as he fights back more tears.

His hands can't stop shaking, his vision is blurry with tears. The dampness of the forest floor slowly seeps into his ratty sneakers. He can physically feel where the gun is pointed at his back, his common sense screaming _danger, get the fuck away, stupid -_

Jaskier isn't really used to _hard work_ like this. He digs until his arms start to hurt, and then he continues digging despite the pain, because the hole is far from big enough.

His thoughts are racing. There's so many things he hasn't done yet. There were supposed to be years and years and _years_ to get to them all - he hasn't become a world-renowned musician yet, and he has always wanted to learn french but never had the time for it, and there was a movie coming out next year that he and Essi wanted to go see - and god, there are so many people he'd like to say goodbye to, so many people that won't know where he disappeared off to and will worry until they eventually forget because nobody will find Jaskier's body here, not soon enough to make the connection -

He's going to die, and he's really fucking _terrified_ of that - he's scared of dying, he's scared of death - the thought of just ceasing to be is... unfathomable.

He's scared of pain, too. Maybe if he asks Geralt nicely, he'll make it quick and painless for him? He chokes on the hysterical laugh that threatens to spill out of his throat, and keeps digging, even if his arms burn.

All the while, Geralt is watching his inner turmoil with a blank, detached expression, looking almost _bored_ as he lights a cigarette.

Time passes. How much time, Jaskier doesn't know, but the sky gets even darker, moonlight filtering through the trees. At some point, he sheds his jacket, because the digging makes him warm. Geralt's eyes seem to glow in the darkness, lit by the burning end of his cigarette.

The hole still isn't big enough. Jaskier is not sure how much longer it'll take. He's three, no four feet down, the grass of the clearing level with his chest, still not deep enough to protect his corpse from scavengers. Not to mention that it's only _just_ long enough to fit his body - if he were to curl up.

The thought of being buried alive occurs to him. He imagines laying down on the earth at his feet, curled into the fetal position as the man above him shovels dirt back into the hole he dug himself.

Fresh tears streak down his dirty face. Being buried alive sounds like a horrible death, full of terror. Jaskier would much prefer a bullet to his head, if he could choose. A quick end - he'd be dead before he knows it.

"Did I tell you to stop digging?" Geralt growls behind him.

Jaskier can’t keep in the sob. "I can't keep going anymore," he says. He's _exhausted_. The adrenaline is the only thing keeping him upright, but he's going to run out soon. His hands are heavy, like they're made of lead - he doesn't think he can move them again.

"That's a real shallow grave," Geralt comments, sounding almost... amused.

Jaskier doesn't care anymore. He's going to die. And when he'd dead, he won't give a fuck about the state of his grave. Let the wildlife dig him up and feast on him - it doesn't matter. "Just kill me," he finds himself saying. "A shot to the head, if you'd be so kind?"

"Sure," Geralt says. "After all, it's not _my_ grave."

Jaskier hears him stomp out his cigarette, and then he feels the cold, hard metal of the gun press against the back of his head. A shiver runs down his spine, chilling him to the bone.

"Any last words, pretty boy?"

Jaskier should have something ready, shouldn't he? But he comes up empty. Nothing seems important enough for Jaskier to feel the need to say it. To say it to Geralt, of all people. Should he pray? He knows people sometimes do that when they are about to die, but he was never religious, so he doubts it would do him any good - and he doesn't know any prayers anyway. "No. Just - just end it."

He takes a deep breath, bracing himself for - what, he doesn't know, because he's never had a bullet run through his head before - bracing himself for _nothing_ , probably.

And then Geralt's phone rings. Jaskier jumps at the sound, biting his tongue in the process.

Geralt sighs and swipes to answer. "Hmm?"

The caller talks, and Geralt listens, keeping the gun right where it is, digging into the back of Jaskier's head. Jaskier thinks he hears a man's voice on the line, but he's not sure.

Geralt hums, again. "I see," he says simply, and then he ends the call.

So. This is it. Jaskier is going to die _now_ -

The gun withdraws.

"Congratulations," Geralt says dryly. "Turns out the fuck-up wasn't your fault. You get to live another day."

Jaskier is numb, until it hits him like a freight train. The _relief_ he feels makes him lightheaded. "You won't kill me?" he squeaks, his throat dry.

"No," Geralt tells him. "At least not today."

 _That_ shouldn't be as reassuring as it is. But Jaskier is alive. He's alive. He's _alive_. He's going to live. Feeling rushes back into his body, and he still can't quite believe it - is this just his brain shutting down? But the mud seeping into his shoes seems pretty real, as well as the burning pain in his arms. _He's alive._

He dug his own grave. He was about to be shot. _Fuck_ \- if the phone rang just a few seconds later, he _would_ be shot. He _would_ be dead - for nothing. And Geralt, the man who would have put a bullet in his head, would just shrug, bury his corpse and never let the thought of Jaskier bother him ever again. That's... a lot to take in. Jaskier had been seconds away from death, and his life was saved by a thirty-second phone call.

"Get out of the hole," Geralt orders, and Jaskier has never been happier to obey a command.

He swiftly scrambles out of his own grave, not needing to spend more time down here - to think that just seconds ago he was so accepting of dying... it's almost ridiculous. He hoists himself out of the hole and crawls away from it, and stands up on unsteady feet.

He can’t stop shaking. He’s cold, and he still tastes death on his tongue, and he’s so, so tired. He’s going to go home, take a hot shower, drink everything in his apartment that contains alcohol, and then he’s going to sleep until his next shift at the bar. He’s going to do his best to forget this hellish night.

He starts in the direction of the car, but Geralt stops him with a big hand on Jaskier’s chest.

“Where do you think you are going,” he growls.

Jaskier blinks. “I - I just dug my own grave,” he says. “I _need_ to get fucking drunk.”

“You better remember this experience very vividly,” Geralt advises, “so you don’t get any stupid ideas like going to the cops. Because if you _do_ , I’ll make sure you _will_ end up in this hole after all. Did I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly,” Jaskier assures him. “I personally would prefer it if there wasn’t a repeat performance of this in the future.” God, he just wants to - he wants to leave this horrible experience behind, and the first step to that is to get home. He tries to walk past Geralt again -

And Geralt stops him, again. “Not so fast, pretty boy,” he murmurs, and for the first time in this entire night, his expression changes, his mouth forming a sharp, predatory smirk. “Suck my dick.”

“I - what?”

“You said you’d do anything I want if I let you live,” Geralt reminds him. “I want you to suck my dick.”

Jaskier sputters. This man has the _audacity_ to ask for a blow job when just minutes earlier he was ready to kill Jaskier in cold blood, no room for negotiation? He’s taking an offer Jaskier made when he was _beyond_ desperate - one that he has already rejected and one that was no longer standing, since Jaskier had been spared by their higher-ups. “I didn’t - that wasn’t - _you_ didn’t spare my life, I don’t fucking owe you anything - “

Geralt catches his jaw in his hand, fingers digging into Jaskier’s cheeks, holding him in place. “You’re a fucking _barman_ , Jaskier. Sometimes you help to move drugs,” he hisses. “ _That’s. It_. You’re replaceable. Nobody would even blink if I actually put you in the ground, guilty or not. So yeah, I _did_ fucking spare your pathetic life, and I deserve a little something for that, don’t you agree?”

For as much as Jaskier was ready to die a while ago, he really, desperately wants to stay alive now, whatever it takes. He’s not going to aggravate Geralt further. Not trusting his voice, he nods, his heart in his stomach.

“Good boy,” Geralt smiles, and it’s an ugly, condescending thing. He pushes Jaskier to the ground. “Now suck my cock.”

Jaskier kneels in front of him, the knees of his jeans uncomfortably damp with dew, and he reaches for Geralt’s belt, skin crawling.

He’s going to survive, no matter what it takes.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr as [@witchertrashparty](https://witchertrashparty.tumblr.com/).


End file.
